


Unguarded

by PFL (msmoat)



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Christmas, M/M, Sleep Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 14:20:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3071351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msmoat/pseuds/PFL
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After five or six days of work, with little sleep, the lads are finally allowed thirty-six hours off. When you're that exhausted, sometimes the filters come off and you say things you might not otherwise say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unguarded

“Very well.” Cowley rubbed his hands together as he walked around the corner of the desk to his chair. “We’ve cut off the heads, cauterised the stumps, and just as in the legend, it was teamwork that carried the day.” He looked around at them. Doyle was just trying to decide if he should come up with a response when Cowley spoke again: “Och, look at the pair of you. You’re falling down on your feet. You’re of no use to me like this.”

Doyle noticed Bodie stirring beside him, as if working up to a protest. He himself didn’t care what Cowley said, as long as it didn’t involve getting on any bikes.

“Go home. You’ve got thirty-six hours, and then I need you back here. See that you’re back in proper shape!”

“Yes, sir.” Bodie said, while Doyle just nodded and headed for the door.

As soon as the office door was closed behind them, Bodie nudged him. “Where the hell does he get the energy?”

“Deal with the devil?” Doyle stood still, gazing at the opposite wall in the hallway. “Nah, not even the devil would dare. Whose car do we have?”

“Dunno. Mine, I think.”

“Can’t remember where mine—”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll drive you home. You can keep me awake,” Bodie got them both moving down the hallway.

“But can you make it from mine to yours?”

“Mine to yours what?”

“Um… Flat.” They went down the stairs together. Doyle touched the handrail to steady himself.

“Expect so. Know the way.”

“But can you see straight?”

Bodie ushered him through the door. “Nothing’s straight in London, right?” Night had fallen while they had been with Cowley.

Doyle didn’t have to look around to know that Bodie was grinning. Daft sod. “Fine, but you can always crash at my flat, if need be.” 

It was a sign of how very tired he was that he didn’t even register the ensuing silence until Bodie spoke again: “Thanks, mate.”

Doyle shrugged, trying to hide the sudden wariness he felt, although at least it served to wake him up a bit. _Let it go._ He was too tired to deal with undercurrents or conversational land mines. They climbed into Bodie’s car. Five—six?—days of non-stop pursuit had resulted in the prevention of a bombing campaign, discovery of several arms caches, and the destruction—hopefully—of a terrorist group with links to both the IRA and Russia. Doyle knew he ought to feel satisfied, but all he wanted was to go home. “Are you going to start the car?”

“I’m doing it. Just— Christ.” Bodie put the key in the ignition and started the car. He drove onto the street and merged with the evening traffic, exhibiting uncharacteristic caution. 

They’d lost Pearson before the op started, although it had been his information that had provided the final clues to crack the group and its cells. Jamison, Lee, and Bryant had been killed in action; Anson, Carter, Finn, and Davis were in hospital. Bodie had nearly died rescuing Doyle from certain death. Their actions and sacrifices had certainly saved lives, possibly hundreds of them. Yet Doyle felt none of the triumph that fuelled Cowley’s energy. He was tired, battered, and heartsore. Was it worth it? He knew what Bodie would say: _it’s a job. Get it done._ They had done that, with only snatches of sleep and food when they could grab it. It was over. Maybe he’d care by the time they were due back.

He suddenly realised the car was drifting. “Oi!” He hit Bodie—not hard, but sharply.

“Ow! Dammit.” Bodie corrected the car’s path, but threw a glare at Doyle.

“You’re welcome,” Doyle said.

“That wasn’t what I was thinking.”

“Keep in mind Cowley’s reaction to Murphy’s accident.” 

Bodie grimaced. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Maybe we should’ve stayed at HQ. Sally was doing that.”

“No. I want my thirty-six hours. Thirty-five hours. How long’ve we been driving, anyway?”

“Years.” Doyle glanced out the window, then back at Bodie. “Happy Christmas.”

“You already said that.”

“When?”

“Two days ago.” Bodie frowned. “Three? Sometime, anyway.”

“Maybe it’s next year’s Christmas. Maybe we’ve been driving for a year.”

“Closer to the new year than Christmas.” Bodie turned his head towards Doyle. “Happy new year, mate.”

“Good riddance to this one.”

“We did win, Ray.”

Doyle sighed. “I know.” Bodie was alive. He cared about that. He’d always care about that. And because he was tired, his defences down, and Bodie was quiet, and no one was shooting at them, his mind filled with memories of their confrontation after the Dreisinger-Herzog debacle.

_What the Fuck is wrong with you, Bodie? We won, you know!_

_No thanks to you!_

_What the hell does—?_

_He saw you get up! Dreisinger. it’s how he knew I was CI5, or some—_

_You’re blaming me? It was your cobbled together plan—_

_We_ both _thought it—_

_I saved your bloody life!_

_No one asked you to! Dammit! It could have got both of us!_

_Better that than—_

_No._

Doyle closed his eyes, wiling the memory away, trying to bottle it up. But there had been silence that night, too. Or at least, it had been voiceless.

_Hot mouth on his, hard fingers bruising with their grip. Shock and anger ripped through him, matching Bodie’s anger, turning abruptly into desire. At last, at fucking last! While Bodie had been held hostage, he’d blocked all his fears and emotions, and so they roared out of him now, funnelled into sex and the need to dominate. Fucking Bodie, ran from him, ran from him—oh, Christ, he wanted to kill him, fuck him, own him. They hit the wall. He tore at Bodie’s shirt, and felt the buttons on his own shirt give under Bodie’s hands. They ground against each other, panting, craving more. He bit Bodie’s lip, then kissed him again. Stupid bastard, he could have died. He’d thought Bodie would die—die—_

_Protect him. Protect. The kiss changed as he ceded to Bodie’s need, suddenly recognising the terror underneath his anger. His hands gentled, slowed, but then he felt Bodie falter. And he knew, as surely as he knew Bodie would save him, that gentleness would break him. Hard and fast, then, purge the anger and fear from both of them. He thrust his tongue deep into Bodie’s mouth, shoved Bodie’s trousers down to squeeze his arse, and wasn’t surprised when Bodie retaliated. Doyle was pushed against the wall, his mouth fucked, his cock squeezed. He didn’t resist when Bodie turned him, but he ground out the words: “Lubricant, you bastard.” They made do with sweat and spit, and the familiar protective instinct that kept Bodie from ripping into him. Hard, fast, and over quickly for both of them. They collapsed together to the floor, separate once more, yet tangled. With his back against the wall, and Bodie beside him, Doyle took Bodie’s hand in his, let him feel the strength in the hands that had saved him when Doyle had torn the bomb off him earlier in the day. Safe. They were safe. Weren’t they?_

“Doyle. Doyle!”

He forced open heavy eyelids, his brain in a fog. “What?”

“We’re here.”

“Where?”

“Home.”

“Oh. Okay.” He fumbled with the door handle, climbed out, paused for a moment, then leaned into the car. “Well, come on.”

Bodie’s head snapped up. “Eh?”

“You’re out on your…not feet.”

“ _I_ am?”

“Come on, don’t be a berk.” He closed the door then leaned against the car. He heard the driver’s side door open and close.

“Oh, for fuck’s—” Suddenly, Bodie was urging him to move, up the stairs to his flat. It was the same hard grip on his arm—familiar and welcome—the only support Doyle would ever admit to needing. Except he couldn’t admit it to Bodie, only to himself. “Key,” he heard, as if from a distance. He pulled himself together enough to unlock the door. Bodie went with him all the way inside his flat, through the hallway, rife with memories, and into the bedroom. 

“Tea?” he thought to ask. He looked at Bodie and wondered which of them was swaying. 

“I need to go home.” Bodie’s voice was low. 

Doyle nodded. He took off his jacket, holster, and shirt, leaving only his t-shirt. He sat on the bed to untie his shoes, toed them off, then pulled off his jeans. His body wanted only to lie down— _needed_ to lie flat. The bed drew him as a mirage would draw a man dying of thirst. Oh, God. He couldn’t see—blind with exhaustion—and then realised it was only that Bodie had switched off the bedroom light. Bodie stood in the doorway, framed by light. He was leaving.

“Bodie.” He had gone that night, gone away, fled, handclasp broken. He’d spoken not a word to Doyle. And when they’d met again, the fear in his eyes had kept Doyle silent. “Bodie,” he whispered, already alone.

“Get your head down Ray.” It was Bodie’s hand again, pushing him down. 

Oh, the bliss of lying down. He wanted to let go, fall into the void of sleep, but he needed Bodie more. He put his hand out, wrapped his fingers around Bodie’s forearm. “Stay.” Too tired to stop himself, too tired to stop the bloody tears that always betrayed him when he was unguarded. Thank God the light was out. But the plea hung between them, and his hand stayed on Bodie’s arm.

“Ray.” 

He let go as Bodie stood, and rolled onto his back with his arm across his eyes so he wouldn’t have to watch him leave. So. He’d sleep. He’d have no choice but to sleep. With luck, he wouldn’t dream.

“Shift over, you bastard.”

Doyle blinked, struggling against the whirlpool pulling him down. He moved over as Bodie climbed into bed next to him. The bedroom was in complete darkness—no light from the hallway. Bodie lay beside him, quiet, breathing. Still. And then Doyle felt a hand nudge his. He opened his fist, meshed his fingers with Bodie’s. It was Bodie’s gun hand in his, and it had saved his life that day. “I’ve got you,” he said. 

“Yeah.” There was no tremor in Bodie’s grip, only strength.

Sleep took him away, but he wasn’t alone, and there was no fear.

END  
December 2014

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2014 Discovered on a Silent Night challenge in the community DiscoveredinaLJ.


End file.
